The Last Days Of Max Payne Part Two
by Pat Taylor
Summary: ... To Hell and Back. With time running out for Mona, Max heads off in search of a vaccine, and finds himself drawn into a conspiracy that threatens the whole city. Part Two now complete.
1. Prelude

**The Last Days of Max Payne**

**Part Two: To Hell And Back**

**_Prologue_**

The stars are bright tonight, like glitter sprinkled on thick black velvet. It's a beautiful night in New York city. People are sat on balconies and verandas, drinking cocktails and wine. Housewives sit out on the steps of crumbling brick tenement blocks with children in their arms, smelling that sweet night perfume. But the streets are quiet. The air, laden with a strange foreboding.

See the blazing fire that swallows the hulk of an old Bronx theatre, the look of horror on the faces of those brave first few souls to enter the crumbling building at what they discover in its ancient wooden walls. Corpses, everywhere, most of them burned beyond recognition to blackened husks. Those few that have escaped the all-consuming flames are, mysteriously, riddled with bullets. One of the fire-fighters throws up his Italian lunch on some burn-blackened wood. Another mutters, "Oh god…"

See the hopeless horror on the faces of revellers in a gothic nightclub as they stumble across the corpse of a girl sat near the dance floor, her red-rimmed eyes flashing white in the pulsing lights, her mouth wide and frightened, splattered with the blood that she choked on, the pounding beats of Nine Inch Nails reverberating in the heads of those who look upon her, coming through a haze. As they stagger backwards, another starts to cough, and a bouncer calls the emergency services. By the time the emergency services arrive, four are dead.

See the newspaper seller on a corner in Manhattan bending over and clutching his chest halfway through handing a customer change, and the look of utter horror that slides over his pale face as a horribly big splatter of blood hits his work-hardened hands.

See the hundreds of locked doors across the city, the silent bedrooms, musty and cloying with sickness and disease, the bloodstains on the pillows. See the TVs left on in silent lounges, broadcasting nothing but harsh blue light to the vacant eyes of the occupants.

See the graffiti on the side of an old brick factory in the docks: MIASMA IS GOD'S PUNISHMENT, NEW YORK CHOKE ON YOUR SINS!

Now see the congested hallways of Mercy General Hospital. See the seemingly never-ending green linoleum corridors, littered at every yard with slumped bodies, the dead and the dying, hacking out their guts in final desperate spasms beneath the harsh white lights. See the nurses moving along the corridors, the squeak of their pumps on the tiles accompanying the symphony of choking and groaning, their eyes spinning and rolling in desperation. Their job has gone from saving the living to finding ways to dispose of the dead. Already a few have been sent home sick, but finding a gap in the care is nearly impossible. There are two bodies in the staffroom. Another is slipping out of consciousness.

Now see a small corner of the hospital, a relatively quiet corner. A woman, pale, beautiful, but as gaunt and pale as a corpse, is slumped against a wall. The man standing over her doesn't look any better. His eyes are haunted shadows, his face deeply etched and old, his shirt splattered with blood stains, his dusty, soot-stained leather jacket ragged. They're survivors.

Hell… people must think we look like we've gone to hell and back.

I brush the hair out of my eyes and tell Mona that everything will be ok. It's a lie and I hate myself for it. She's contracted miasma, the disease that has left such a distinctive scar all across the city, in all those rooms, in those clubs, in those news vendor's stands. And here, where the scab is at its deepest. It's still bleeding. The city has taken some serious blows. If someone doesn't stop it soon, it'll succumb.

All I'm interested in is saving her life. I don't know how much time I have left. I don't know if the crusade I'm about to embark will prove to be a useless, foolhardy waste of time. A wasteful plunge back into the hell I just scraped out of. Maybe it will, but if there's the slightest glimmer of hope, the slightest possibility that I can save her life, I'll take it. I owe it to her. She saved mine. My guardian angel.

I take her cold, pallid hands. She's always cold, but never like this. It's like handling a corpse.

"I'm leaving," I tell her frankly. "I'm going to follow up that lead you gave me. If it's connected to Miasma, maybe there's a vaccine out there I can get." I stare into her eyes and prepare to lie through gritted teeth. "I'm not going to let you die, Mona."

It's all she can do to nod. Since we walked through the hospital doors, she's been drifting in and out of consciousness. Getting weaker. The coughing hasn't started yet – not that retching, high-pitched final wheeze as the lungs squeeze themselves into annihilation. I've got time on my hands.

I kiss her hands. "I'll be back, Mona. I promise."

Leaving her hurts me more than I can imagine. Just that one glimmer of hope, Max. Hold on to it. Follow it through. Don't think about her, alone here, surrounded on one side by a dying man in an overcoat, and an elderly woman who looks dead already. In these never-ending corridors of death, like some horrible huge charnel house. You're going to save her.

I leave the hospital and set out, once more, into the night.


	2. Chapter One

**PART TWO: TO HELL AND BACK**

**_Chapter One: That Shark Smile_**

Stepping out of that hospital, even into the baking, stinking air of the city, was so much better than the stifling smell of death that had haunted the dirty corridors of the hospital. As I walked down the steps, passing traumatised nurses and those patients who had decided that they'd rather sit out here and die in their greens enjoying the heat than in those twisty, haunted corridors, I took deep greedy breaths of it. Even through the foreboding stench of the dying city, I could smell that sweet night perfume – an intoxicating scent, fresh, invigorating.

It died under a cloud of exhaust fumes as a huge, sleek, black Mercedes – all modern glass, brilliantly polished chrome, one way tinted windows – came to a casual stop at the foot of the steps. The driver's window slid down as if it's owner didn't have a care in the world. I stopped and watched.

The face that revealed itself wasn't instantly familiar, but we did know each other. Slick black hair, perfect tanned skin, perfect white teeth in a shark's smile. A predator. I had a horrible feeling I knew who the prey would be.

He pushed open the door and stepped out on to the sidewalk. Another man left the passenger's side. Both were imposing figures in immaculate, and expensive, black suits, topped off with long black businessman's coats that hung open and hovered just inches off the floor. I got the impression that the guy with the shark smile was dressing to impress. His lackey was dressing with an entirely different motive in mind. That long black coat made him look as wide as a barrel.

I knew a hired goon when I saw one.

"Mr Payne?" the man with the shark smile asked, all charm. His voice was like molten chocolate. "FBI agent Troy Novak. I believe we've spoken. Can I offer you a ride?"

He turned to the Merc. I shrugged.

"Where are you headed?"

"Wherever you want to be, Mr Payne," Novak chuckled. "This rides on us."

"The warehouse district in Wallabout," I replied curtly. "No funny stuff."

Novak pulled on expression of fake shock. That shark smile lay beneath it throughout, like an unwanted ghost.

I circled the car. The lackey opened the front door for me and I stepped inside, as if I had a choice. I could have made a run for it, but it would have been pointless. These guys would have popped me in the back as soon as I'd spun around. They had me cold – maybe, for now. I had a few suspicions anyway.

The goon slammed the door shut and calmly locked it. I strapped myself in as Novak took a seat next to me and started up the ignition. The goon sat down behind me. Surrounding me. I glanced around the car briefly, surveying my chances. If the lackey in the back seat decided to pop a bullet in the back of my head here, he'd do it easy. I frowned and stared hopelessly out the window as the car drove off.

Novak had cut past the small talk as soon as we'd passed the car park. Quiet jazz played on the car radio. He ignored it. "You made quite a mess back in that theatre, Mr Payne."

"Wasn't me," I retorted. "George Harvard Desoto. Formally a big mob man. Don't know if you're familiar with him."

"I know you certainly are," Novak said.

"I was a cop, of course I was. He's knocked up a good few homicides over the past few years."

"I wasn't referring to that. I was talking about that little incident five years ago, Mr Payne. You made him what he was today. In fact, I'd bet a lot of the flotsam clogging up this damn city's underworld was your fault in some way. You've caused a lot of trouble. You're a lucky man for stumbling over stuff that didn't concern you and making friends in high places." Novak leaned in close and I could smell his expensive cologne. For a moment he took his eyes off the road. "But you're running out of friends, Max. The Inner Circle's a thing of the past. There's a new world order growing up in this town. They think you're dispensable. Fact is, they think it might be better to dispense with you entirely."

I glanced in the mirror. There was a gun sliding through the gap between the seat and the headrest. I felt it's cold edge against the back of my neck. Pretending not to have noticed it, fighting to keep the gooseflesh on my arm down, I turned my attentions to the city flashing past the window.

"Bad things are happening out in the night, Max," Novak continued. "I've got a lot of crap to clean up. This whole Miasma mess is going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better, tonight will only be the beginning. And you and that bitch, you're both part of it. Do you understand?"

I pretended not to hear. Let him follow the line, let something slip. Outside we were driving through a classy shopping district – all tree-lined avenues, glass shop fronts with expensive perfume ads, rich-looking couples, three-storey thirties blocks. They were just the width of a glass window away, but their delicate white lights might well have been on the other side of the Atlantic.

Novak sighed. "Max, please. I just want a friendly chat. I don't want this to turn nasty."

"Then answer some questions," I balked back suddenly. "Just what the hell do you know about the Inner Circle? Who's this 'new world order?' What's all this got to do with Miasma?"

"I thought you had all the answers, Max," he said, prissily. "Just how far did you stick your nose in? Maybe my superiors are paranoid and you know nothing. Which makes you all the more dispensable."

Outside we were cruising close to the river, entering a more industrial area. Moonlight shimmered on its murky surface. Not too far now.

I turned to him and smiled. "Maybe I am," I said. And I bent down, my eardrums seemingly blown out by the gunshot that explodes just past my ear, spraying glass out into the night sky. I'm assaulted by an explosion of chaos and noise – screeching tyres, breaking glass, Novak's stunned cries, the soft jazz, and beneath it all the ringing in my ears. I grabbed the seat control and yanked it towards me, pushing back as hard as possible. The goon in the seat behind cried out as his legs were crushed beneath the seat. Another shot punctured through the roof with a noise like a blade punching through cardboard.

Novak, one hand on the wheel, desperately trying to take control of the Merc, was reaching into his black coat for a silenced pistol. I swung up the lock on the door and threw my body against it hard, just as he yanked out the gun. Three fireballs shot past my head, three brief flashes and three short, sharp 'ping' noises, as I hit the road and rolled to a stop. The wind was knocked out of my hard as the car roared past, a screaming black streak in the night, and suddenly I was lying on the road beneath the stars, deafened by the gun shot, blinded by the car's rear lights, grazed, but alive.

A short way down the road the car was spinning a hundred and eighty degrees, one door still swinging open. I reached for my gun. The headlights flashed into life, an explosion of white light that blinded and disorientated me as the car roared into life. It was coming straight for me.

I rolled aside. From somewhere in the car Novak cried out, "You can't run, Payne! You bastard!" Then his flash Merc and his shark smile drove off down the highway, past the warehouses and run down dockland buildings.

I wasn't about to wait for him to come back. I pushed myself up to my knees and ran for the steel boundary running along the side of the road. As the tail lights flashed up, I hopped over the side and slipped down into the warehouse complex below.

To be continued...


	3. Chapter Two

**PART TWO: TO HELL AND BACK**

**_Chapter Two: The Lost City_**

The lights of the city seemed a long way away here.

I stood at the top of a gravely embankment, which slid away from the steel road boundary to the warehouse complex below. I was fighting to keep the old memories from rising up after my last visit to the docks like corpses from their graves – terrifying stirrings, the screams of men, the grinding of machines. As I scrambled down the embankment, my hands were shaking.

The docklands below looked, beneath the velvet sky, like a lost city. Run down brick warehouses sat in dusty yards, full of rusted metal machines like the bones of giants. Windows were boarded up, and those that weren't were smashed. The walls were covered in graffiti and laced with vines. This was a forgotten place. A city of the dead.

But there was life here. Somewhere out in this crumbling complex, I could hear men's voices, the sounds of rolling machinery. Doors opening, closing. And over it all, like distant white noise, the murky splash of the Hudson rolling over the rocks beyond. An alarm bell rang out briefly. Someone cried out.

Crouching low in the shadow of a rusty dumpster, I reached into an inner pocket for the raggedy sheet of paper. My hands were slicked with cold sweat, so much so they began to rub the ink off. I was close. This was the place. Something froze in my throat. I crept around the corner and surveyed the area.

This was the place all right.

A warehouse as grim and old as the others sat near the water's edge, but there was plenty of hustle around it. A fleet of inconspicuous black trucks were parked outside. Men in black uniforms and white coats wandered around them, not appearing to do very much. Lights glowed from the interior of the building. White smoke billowed from its stainless steel chimneys. Flashlights shone out into the night sky. A few of the men were armed. Above the main double doors there sat a logo that seemed vaguely familiar – a snake, entwined around a syringe.

No entry through that way. I slunk around the back of my warehouse, keeping close to the lichen-blackened wall. A brief scan of the building's west wall revealed what I'd hope I'd find – a shiny ladder, strapped to one side of the warehouse. One man on duty beneath it, yawning, occasionally lighting up a smoke.

No other way to do this but quietly. I was still a little weak and shaken after my encounter with Novak, and after the theatre I was in no shape to be fighting an army. I slipped my hand into an inner pocket and pulled out an old switchblade with a shiny ebony handle. Holding its coolness in my hand brought on a shot of grief so sudden it felt like I'd flicked it open in my heart. It had been a gift from Michelle, god alone knows how many years ago now. A few weeks before me, Alex and some other guys had gone on a hunting trip upstate. Had I even been grateful? Had I even taken a minute to really thank her? Or was I too busy counting the cans and making sure we had enough smokes for the trip? Sometimes the past was so laden with regrets you'd think a man could drown in them.

I wondered, not for the first time, if Michelle had ever, in her darkest imaginings, foreseen that neat little switchblade she'd bought in some unassuming Fifth Avenue department store, would ever have such a dark purpose. I doubted it. All those years ago this would have been the stuff of nightmares.

I flicked the switch and six inches of sheer blue blade shot out with barely a sound. Intended to be used for skinning deer, I guessed. Didn't know how well it would hold up on a man. Guess there was only one way to find out.

Creeping across the weed-strewn grounds, slunk low like a vampire, blade close to hand, I made my way towards the warehouse, and to the guard on duty. He didn't look like a professional. Plain black uniform, some small security firm's badge on the sweater. The only thing that stood out was the gun strapped to his belt. Joe Average with a mortgage, two cars and a couple of kids. I hated myself for what I had to do. This was no way to kill a man.

The blade high in the air, I slipped behind him as he raised his final cigarette up to his mouth and took a long drag. For a second a distant white flashlight lit everything up brilliantly. My heart pounded. His head turned. I leapt up and plunged the blade into his throat.

He let out a grunt and an impossibly large mass of blood spat out of his neck in a huge red waterfall, splattering on the floor with a sound like rain on a tin roof. He fell to his knees, his body jittering, hands scratching at his neck. Finally he slumped forward into the vast, spreading black puddle on the floor. I removed the slippery blade, allowing an arterial flow of blood to spill of the wound, and pocketed it. I wondered if there were cameras watching, or how much time I'd have before another would wander past here. Then I grabbed the ladder and began to climb, taken by fear.

The climb seemed to take forever. Above me the shadows of the rusty roof seemed a million miles away, and yet the floor seemed to be stretching further, as if I was slipping into some weird limbo. I was almost at the top, the gravely floor far below, when I heard the footsteps. For one horrible second I froze, and my grip on the steel ladder tightened.

"Oh my god," a voice cried out from below. "Oh Jesus…"

I didn't dare peer down. Instead I hopped over the edge of the ladder and landed hard on the tin roof. Then, my stomach quivering, I risked a look down.

A security guard stood over the corpse of his late friend, seemingly in shock. Then, as I watched, he composed himself and reached for his walkie-talkie.

"We got a major problem here, Zero," he stuttered. There was a gap, then, "It's Marty. He's dead. Hell of a mess… Ok. I'll call the rest together now. A complete search?... Ok. We'll get all bases covered… Over and out."

There was a skylight near me, on the roof. I had to move fast. Codenames? Maybe these guys weren't quite as amateur as I'd first assumed, and by the sound of it they were patrolling the area for me.

I tossed the blade, reached for my gun, and headed for the skylight.

To be continued…


	4. Chapter Three

**PART TWO: TO HELL AND BACK**

**_Chapter Three: The Snake_**

The skylight window, old and a little rusty, gave surprisingly easily and, crucially, silently. Dim fluorescent light pooled up into the night sky from the small room below. I dropped down and hit the floor hard, rolling a little on the concrete. Briefly winded. Ignore it. Not much time left.

The room was a small, bare office. Or had been an office once. There was an old wooden table, with crinkled yellow paper stuffed under one crooked leg. A nudie calendar dated November 2000 hung from a dusty concrete wall. A half-full, functional wastepaper basket sat in a corner. There were a few filing cabinets. Other than that the room was empty. It smelled of oil, paper and highlighter fluid.

I ignored it and pushed open the door on the far side. It creaked loudly and gave on to a plain concrete corridor, dotted occasionally with similar wooden doors probably leading to other offices. This part of the building had been out of use for half a decade.

But it was still occupied. From somewhere down the corridor a door swung open and two men emerged, talking loudly. Panic flared up in my head and I slipped back into the office, leaving the door open slightly to hear their conversation.

"I'm feeling pretty beat," one said. "All week working on the C-Strain, barely without a break. They're really pushing us over in Block 3. How's things with you?"

"Getting worse," another replied. "Zero reckons there's been a breach of the western wall. Marty's dead."

"Dead? Shit. How'd it happen?"

"Throat cut. The boys are scouring the whole building right now. Hopefully going to find the bastard that did it and nail his sneaky little ass to a wall."

The voices were getting a little louder now, accompanied by thudding footsteps. One pair sounded a little heavier than the other, as if the owner were wearing hefty boots.

"Aren't you going to join them?"

"Hell no. I'm on my break."

Both burst into laughter. They were almost outside the door. I slipped a magazine into my pistol, wishing the click was a little louder, hoping they didn't hear the dry echo…

Silence, seeming to stretch on forever. Then they started again, but the footsteps and the voices were fading.

"The boss is getting pretty freaked out," the second speaker said. "You know, after he found out Hades killed all those cops earlier tonight. He's panicking a little. You know they think one got away?"

"Jeez, I hope not…" the first replied. "This could get pretty bad if he decided to play hero…"

Something in me snapped. Maybe it had been the talk of the cops. Maybe I'd suddenly remembered the urgency of my quest. I kicked down the door and stepped out into the corridor.

The two men spun around – a guard and a guy in a white lab coat. The guy in the lab coat fell on his ass and cried out. The guard whipped out his gun. I opened fire, the shots sounding horribly loud in the tight corridor, every falling shell letting out a loud tinkle as it hit the concrete floor. Blood sprayed from the guards chest in a streamer and he fell on his back, smoke rising off his jittering body.

"Oh god, please don't kill me!" the guy in the lab coat screamed, covering his head. I pointed the gun at him. He stared up at me with wild, panicked eyes.

"What's going on here?" I balked.

"Nothing, it's just a research department," the scientist replied. "Just an ordinary research department, I'm just a researcher, I research…"

I grabbed him hard by the shoulder and slammed him up against the wall. He shook so hard in my hands that he almost slipped away. He was terrified. I slammed the gun against his temple.

"The snake on the door," I asked. "That's a medical symbol. What exactly are you researching here?"

"Medicine, we just do research, I'm just a researcher…"

I was getting a little tired of this line. I threw the researcher to the ground, pointing the gun at his back. He cried out like a child, scrambling desperately on the concrete floor, just inches away from the body of his late friend, which continued to smoke unabated.

"Take me to the research department," I demanded. "Show me what you research."

He managed to compose himself somehow and push himself up to his feet.

"Okay, I can do that," he said. "I can do that." I noticed with a sneer of disgust that he'd pissed his pants. He probably wouldn't even realise it for a while. But the acrid smell hung pretty strong in the air.

Steadying himself against the wall, the scientist began to walk down the corridor. His hands were shaking violently. He stumbled slightly as we reached the turning. I carefully followed, keeping the gun pointing at his back, but it was only for show. I knew he wasn't about to attempt anything crazy.

He turned the corner and began to descend a staircase, muttering to himself. He seemed in a daze. Downstairs a door slammed open.

Panicking, I grabbed the scientist by the scruff of the neck and yanked him backwards, back round the corner. He let out a small cry. I held the gun against the table and shushed him as quietly as I could.

There were footsteps, loud, coming up the steps. Mumbled voices. Two, maybe three men. I frowned. Only one course of action.

"Stay here," I muttered to the scientist. "Keep down."

He nodded and crouched in a dusty corner, his head brushing through an ancient cobweb. I took in a deep breath and stepped out into the corridor.

The guards didn't have a chance. Two of them opened their mouths to cry out. I fired and his teeth were sheered clean off, leaving an impossibly large splatter of blood on the wall. He fell backwards, he and his friend rolling down the stairs. The third man was reaching for his pistol. I shot him twice, once in the arm, once in the gut. He slumped to his knees, streaks of blood covering the dirty concrete.

I cautiously walked down the stairs, my footsteps suddenly sounding impossibly large. The guard kneeling on the stairs, clutching his wrist, blood streaming around his legs from the chest wound, stared up at me hopelessly.

"Go on," he choked. "Finish me. Show some damn mercy. Bullet in the gut's no way to die."

I rested the gun against his forehead. He winced, maybe wondering if he'd made a mistake, and then closed his eyes. His hand was shaking. I pulled the trigger and his brains were blasted out of the back of his head. He fell backwards, sliding a little down the stairs in the streams of blood, and then came to rest on his back, eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling as the blood pooled around his shattered head.

Downstairs the remaining man was pushing himself off the corpse of his late comrade and was stumbling up the stairs. A young guy, rookie, seemed a little taken aback by everything. For one absurd moment I almost considered holding back the fire. Then I saw him stumbling desperately for his firearm, and I raised the gun. It didn't give me any pleasure.

I pulled the trigger twice. Twice was all it took. The final guard span around, crying out, and landed face first on the stairs just below his colleague.

I'd been successful, but my cover was blown. They knew where I was now. I couldn't waste any more time.

"Come on," I called over to the scientist. He ran out of his cover, took one look at the corpses of the security guards, and threw up. Then, pale and shaky, he began to descend the stairs, a look of utter disgust painted on his face.

At the bottom of the stairs the door, a high tech steel door with a thick window implanted in the middle, was locked by a keypad. The scientist nonchalantly keyed in a seemingly endless numeric code and the door slid open. We stepped into the bowels of the warehouse.

To be continued…


	5. Chapter Four

**PART TWO: TO HELL AND BACK**

**_Chapter Four: The Cold Heart of the Crisis_**

The doors slid back on electric gears, as smooth as butter. They opened up on another world.

Beyond the plastic door lay a brilliant white corridor, lit by bright fluorescents. Lots of similar electronic doors, all keypad locked, were set in the long corridor. My eyes had to adjust to the blinding brightness for a moment. This was no run-down warehouse.

The researcher stepped into the corridor and I followed him. The electronic door slid shut behind us, sealing us in this horrible white nightmare world, all cold plastic and steel.

"Are these the labs?" I asked, glancing around.

The researcher nodded. "A-Wing. The top floor. Goes down another four floors, m-maybe. I've only got clearance for the top two."

"What goes on beneath?"

The researcher shook his head nervously. "I don't know. You never see people enter or leave that place. It's where they manufacture… and… and test."

The look of pale horror that slipped over the researchers pace set a chill up my spine. Before he'd looked panicky and frightened, but for the first time I was seeing real fear. Bad things went on underground. Bad things he wanted no part of it.

"Take me there," I said calmly, hiding my own nervousness.

"I haven't got clearance."

"How can you get it?"

The researcher giggled nervously. "Get it? Clearance for the lower floors? Ha ha. No way, man. That's only for the top researchers. Security down there's far too tight…"

His words broke off nervously. I was pointing my gun at him. "Then you're no use to me."

"No, wait!" he cried. "There… there is a way, I'm sure. You need to…"

His words were cut off by the harsh clack-clack of automatic fire. His eyes flashed up brief panic and then the back of his head was blown off in a cloud of red mist. Blood flew across my chest and the researcher hit the floor face first, the air around his corpse thick with cordite.

I rolled back into a doorway, glancing round at his killers. Three men, all kitted up a lot more than the rest of the security. Black suits, black gas masks, shiny visors. All holding MP5s. Hardcore professionals. These guys weren't messing around.

"The other one," the leader said, lowering his automatic. He's around here. One of the rookies upstairs said he was holding this pansy hostage."

The other two raised their guns and slunk off down the corridor, edgily glancing into every alcove they passed. I raised my gun slightly, fell backwards…

And slipped through the electronic door. It opened silently, spilling me into a silent white room, and closed after me, sealing me inside. The approaching footsteps faded to nothing.

I breathed a sigh of relief and stared around the room. It appeared to be an office. There were several computers set up, all glowing dimly, revealing nothing but screensavers. A large black sign on the wall labelled this as MONITORING STATION THREE. A fan hummed gently in one corner. A set of TVs in the corner beamed back grainy images of white, empty corridors and dim fluorescent lights.

I sat down at a work station, placing my gun on the desk, and idly swung the mouse around in a brief arc. The black screensaver faded and I was facing a web-page with a familiar design. And a familiar logo.

AVAMED, the top of the screen read. Behind it was a logo of a snake, entwined around a syringe. AvaMed. I recognised the name from the newspapers I had read idly on breaks back at the precinct. They were a new pharmaceutical corporation, rapidly climbing up the Dow Jones, and amassing a considerable fortune. Its owner, a young and ambitious entrepreneur called Simon Grant, had made newspaper and magazine front covers as far apart as the financial papers and Cosmopolitan. However, the name had stuck with me for an entirely different reason. Their rise to eminence had come under a lot of scrutiny over the past few months when allegations of illegal drugs testing in Africa had risen to the surface, and the squeaky clean image of New York's finest fast-grower had looked a little more smeary.

But that little problem would look minor compared to the nuclear strike this one would unleash if it ever came out. The page beneath the neat banner was a convoluted list of medical results, tests and failures. I scrolled down the list, almost incapable of comprehending the horror of what I was seeing. Here I was in the cold heart of the crisis. The label at the top of the page read MIASMA C-STRAIN TESTS, and was followed by a whole ream of successes before the grim word FAILURE, after a test carried out just a month ago. I clicked it and was taken to a human profile.

Oh god, I thought, suddenly feeling nauseous. They're testing on humans.

This guy had been giving a strain of the C-Virus, and had died in half an hour. According the to the file, this was too fast, and was deemed a failure. Or, in their words, 'failed to provide the necessary time for virus to spread.'

I returned to the list, scrolling down. So many names. So many lives. God.

The door slid open, so silently that I almost didn't hear it. Cold fear hit me in the chest and I dived beneath the table, grabbing my gun with one hand, clutching the chair with the other.

Conversation. Loud conversation. I peered out from under the desk at the two men walking in the room.

It wasn't the goons, as I'd feared. There were two men, one in a shirt and tie, pulling on an expensive looking black jacket. He was wide, balding, red-faced and grinning maniacally. His partner was a skinny man with a face like a weasel, donning a stripy white shirt with a red tie and braces, topped with a dirty white lab coat.

"Okay, O'Connor," the big man said, shrugging on the jacket. "Tell them to go ahead with the transport of the C-Strain. I think it's ready for field testing."

He chuckled heartily. His friend laughed nervously, but I got the feeling he wasn't getting the joke.

"It hasn't passed lab testing yet," O'Connor replied. He was a quiet man, and he sounded scared. And sad. "And what about the intruder? The base isn't secure. We need more time before releasing it."

"There is no more time," the larger man snapped. "It all goes down tonight. The men have already loaded the B-Strain."

"Sir, with all due respect…"

The larger man threw an arm around the smaller. "Listen, O'Connor. Calm down. Smile." He slapped his friend's cheek chummily. O'Connor jumped. "This night will make us all very rich men. We are guaranteeing AvaMed's future here. Cheer up."

O'Connor sighed, pushed away and walked to the work desk. He began to furiously rub his glasses with a corner of his lab coat. "Guaranteeing AvaMed's future? If we release this virus the way it is now, it'll all go horribly wrong. It won't spread. We'll succeed in nothing but getting caught. And then what? Plus, we have no idea if this intruder has seen anything. Couple of the grunts just radioed me to tell me he's somewhere in the base."

"The intruder isn't a factor," the larger man said, suddenly sounding serious. "Now stop panicking. I'm calling the boss in ten minutes to tell him we've sent out the trucks. And I don't want to disappoint him. Make sure it happens, O'Connor."

The door slid open again, then shut. I heard a chair squeak back, and O'Connor sigh as he fell into it. My heart began to pound hard. Clutching the gun, I carefully slid out of my hiding place.

By the time O'Connor looked up, he was staring into the barrel of my pistol.

"Oh god," he gasped. "Please don't kill me."

"Maybe you can do me a favour, then," I said, slamming off the safety catch. "What's your position?"

O'Connor sighed again, and removed his glasses. He breathed on the lens and began to rub it on his lab coat again. "Chief researcher," he replied, almost embarrassed. "King of the whole damn madhouse here."

"Do you have access to the lower floors?" I asked him.

He nodded. "Although I wouldn't bother if I were you. They're sending the last vials of the virus out tonight, and then they're blowing the place up, and wiping out the evidence."

I frowned, lowering the gun. I didn't think he was a threat any more. "Then it's true?" I said grimly. "They're making Miasma here?"

O'Connor nodded gravely. "Unfortunately, yes. Well, they were. I've been working here for a year now."

"Why? Why are they stopping?"

"We had one last order, to load the last of the new strain on those black trucks outside. No-one knows where they're going, but rumour has it they're headed for every major city in America, laden down with the new improved virus. Some even think a few are headed for JFK, and sending vials out to London, Hong Kong, Paris, Tokyo, Moscow…"

I could hardly believe what I was hearing. The words were travelling through treacle. "Who's orders?"

"Again, no-one knows. The boss has got some mysterious contact who sent us the order last year. Then they built this place, and promoted me to chief researcher. Ten years of Harvard Med and I thought I'd be helping people, not killing them… god."

His eyes were misting over now. I could see pregnant tears swell up in the corners of his naked eyes. He slid the glasses back on.

"Listen, I need your pass," I said, as sympathetically as I could manage. "Someone has to stop this."

"You know it'll be suicide, don't you?"

I shrugged. "Same old shit. Just hand over the card."

O'Connor reached into a coat pocket and handed me over a small white laminated pass-card with his name and face on it. "The code for the lower floors is 2201-161. Slip it in the slot, type in the code, and you're done. But then, of course, you've got to take on half the army down there. It's maximum security. Especially with Max Luther down there."

"Luther?" I asked, walking to the door.

"The asshole I came in with. The boss' man down here, head of the project. He's triggering the base destruction down there, and probably chumming up to all the guys he's about to kill."

I turned to face O'Connor, and he suddenly looked very old. "What about you?" I asked him. "Where are you going to go?"

O'Connor shrugged and smiled a weak, watery smile. He looked almost content. "I'm staying. I called my wife ten minutes ago." He laughed sadly. "Hell… maybe it's all we deserve now, huh? We did some bad things down there. Really bad things. Maybe it's for the best if they blow this place up and forget about it."

I nodded and stepped up to the door, trying to arrange my thoughts, knowing just one thing – that whatever answers I sought were down underground.

"One more thing," O'Connor cried after me. He was still smiling. "Good luck."

And as I watched, he slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out an ancient-looking standard black handgun. He stared at it blankly as I left, and as I stepped through the door raised it to his head.

The shot was silenced by the door as it slid shut.

To be continued…


	6. Chapter Five

**PART TWO: TO HELL AND BACK**

**_Chapter Five: A Witches' Brew_**

I made my way through the labyrinth of corridors, descending down into the depths of the base, wondering if I'd ever see the real world again, expecting at any moment to meet a violent death here underground, in this unnatural soul-less world. Passing down to the second basement level was easy, but moving on from there would prove a little more difficult.

The entrance to the lower floors was guarded by a huge black steel door and two guards, both heavily armed. A camera kept a clinical electronic eye on the guards and any others heading for the door.

No point playing it quiet any more. I was running out of time.

I reached for my gun and leapt out from behind the wall. Time seemed to slow down to nothing. For a moment, for the briefest second, I seemed to live a lifetime. Bullets swept past me, closely followed by a symphony of shots, a rain of fire. I raised my arm and fired. Three perfect shots. The goon's black gas mask shattered, raining black glass into his eye and sending a clot of blood up in the air. The other two punched neat holes in his vest. His head was flung back against the wall and his body rolled to the floor.

I leapt to the side, bullets flying past me, sending chips of concrete and steel out in a flurry in the air. I threw a volley of bullets at the remaining guard. One shattered his arm. The gun flew up into the air. He slumped to his knees, raised the MP5, pulled the trigger… and his head slumped as the dry click ran out in the corridor.

"Oh god…" he muttered.

I fired five shots at him. His body swung around like a rag doll and splattered hard against the door, leaving a stain like someone had thrown a tomato at it. As I walked to the door, alone now with nothing but the gentle hum of the camera, it slid down the door and lay in a heap at the bottom.

I slid O'Connor's pass card into the keypad by the door. There were a few electronic clicks, then a cursor flashed up on the red screen. I typed the code into the numeric keypad and the door slid open slowly, accompanied by an electronic voice that said "Welcome, Dr O'Connor."

It opened on a yawning chasm of darkness like the mouth of hell. This was a bad place, this floor. A place of death.

I grabbed the card and walked through the door, into the darkness beyond.

The dark corridor soon emerged in a large foyer with a tiled AvaMed mural on the floor and a host of control panels around it. Three corridors led off into the depths of the base, the two side passages labelled TESTING, the one straight ahead called MANUFACTURE.

So this was it, I thought. The underground cavern where they made the witches' brew. Where it all began.

I wandered up to a glowing control panel. Touch-screen. Pressing a button caused the glass door to MANUFACTURING to slide open slowly, spilling a horrible medicinal smell out into the foyer.

This is it. All the secrets. And maybe the vaccine. My way out of this hell-hole.

I walked up the steps to the corridor, my legs like jelly, but my mind telling me to keep on going, to head deeper into the base. I was thinking about the last time I'd found myself in a place like this. All those years ago. Valkyr. Everything seemed too familiar to that base, to that other place that had spilt its poison out into the city. And I didn't believe in coincidences.

Stop it, I told myself. Calm down. It's your mind playing tricks on you. Deep Six was blown to hell. It's nothing but a ruin now. And it wasn't here in Wallabout. Focus on getting the vaccine and getting the hell out of here.

I stepped through the glass door. And my heart sunk.

The entrance to the manufacturing floor was sealed by another door with another keypad. I slid my keycard in and typed in the same code, only to be greeted by a refusal and for the card to slide back out. I snatched it out and cried out in utter frustration.

Only one other option left. I returned to the monitors in the centre and opened up the right testing corridor. Then I headed for the corridor beyond.

The door led to a long corridor of small cells, sealed by numbered steel doors with small observation windows. I absently peered into one window into the cold white room beyond. One bed, one toilet. A big Biohazard sign. This must have been where they kept the human test subjects. The rooms were locked by small electronic keypads.

I made my way down the shadowy corridor, glancing through windows. In some a few bodies lay slumped on beds, bloodstains splattered around their hospital johns. They all looked like pale, gaunt skeletons, like bloody horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, I thought grimly, I suppose that was what they were. The wrathful dead, a symbol of what was to come.

As I reached the end I heard a loud bang and shouts. Reaching for my gun, I ran to the source of the noise and saw the horrified, pale face of a researcher staring back at me from a cell.

"Get me out!" he screamed, hopelessly. "Please, god, we're going to die in here! Please!"

I walked up to the door, keeping the door closed, and reached for the keypad. The researcher yelled the code at me. I typed it in. The door unlocked with a slam and began to slide open.

Four researchers tumbled out into the corridor, hitching for fresh air.

"Oh, thank god," the guy at the window said. "Thanks, buddy. Jeez, Luther had his armed goons round us all up and lock us in here. He's going to blow up the base."

"So I've heard," I replied. "Listen, I need to get a hold of the vaccine prototype. Where is it?"

"The Manufacture floor. You'll need a separate card for access."

"Do you have it?"

The researcher nodded. "But if I were you, I'd get the hell out while you still can. Luther's down there now setting up the blast. Once he's triggered that there'll be no getting out."

I frowned. "Hand it over."

He shrugged, reached around his neck and handed me a card attached to a chain. "Good luck, man," he said, and he and the rest fled down the corridor.

So here goes nothing, I thought. The final stand, the crusade almost reaching its end. Guess if I had any sense I'd leave now with the rest of them. But why? I'd come too far to get out now. Mona was all that meant a damn to me anymore. If I wasn't escaping with that vaccine, it'd all be for nothing.

I walked determinedly back to the foyer, stepped through the door… and stopped.

They'd finally caught up with me. Maybe they'd been following me all this time, on those electronic eyes, watching my every move. Waiting.

There were about twelve guards in the foyer, all heavily armed, all fully kitted out. Every gun in the room was pointing directly at me. The bodies of the four researchers lay on the tiles in puddles of their blood, smoke rising off their bullet-ridden bodies. They'd all almost made it, I thought bitterly. Seemed like Luther had succeeded in silencing them after all.

"Put the gun down, Payne," the leader called out, through his black gas mask.

Outgunned. No escape. Only one choice.

I rolled backwards, into the corridor, a volley of bullet fire reducing the concrete wall behind me to shattered dust. I whipped out my gun, pinned myself against the wall, and leapt backwards into action, slamming a new clip home.

I opened fire on the guards, leaping sideways for the shelter of a monitor. Huge balls of fire rolled past me, the roar of gunfire filling my head. A bullet ripped a fire slash along my arm. Two guards fell backwards, clutching at their chests, one landing on another near him.

As I hit the floor the monitor exploded, causing all the doors to eerily slide open. I hardly noticed it as gunfire reduced the monitor to shattered metal and glass.

Come on, Max. Only one way out of this.

I leapt up, swinging around, my gun held high in the air. I blasted the nearest guard three times in the chest. He crumpled to his knees in a bloody mess. I leapt for the fallen guard's MP5, whipping it off his chest, and fell backwards.

I socked the gun against my shoulder, then slammed back on the trigger. Four guards spun around wildly under the force of the first clip, blood spraying in the air. The final five guards were retreating now. One paused to reload. I stood up and blasted open his chest. Another fell under a volley in the back.

The final three fled through the exit, back up to daylight.

I sighed and choked back a painkiller. Keep the pain on my arm back for long enough to get me to that vaccine. Come on, Max. Not much further now.

I threw the MP5 round my neck and made my way to the Manufacturing floor.

To be continued…


	7. Chapter Six

**PART TWO: TO HELL AND BACK**

**_Chapter Six: Four Horsemen_**

The room was thick with the stench of cordite. Everything was soaked and splattered with fresh blood.

I made my way over the broken tiles, over hundreds of empty shell casings, to the entrance to the Manufacturing Floor. The comforting weight of the MP5 bounced gently across my chest. They were on to me. They'd showed their hand. More men would be waiting for me behind those doors, a whole army, maybe. And, with any luck, Mack Luther. I still had plenty of answers I wanted from him.

I slid the card into the door panel. It flashed up green and the door opened to reveal an elevator. I snatched the card and walked in, hitting the button.

The elevator rumbled down into the bowels of the base. To the vaccine. I felt like I was lining up for the touchdown, like Indiana Jones in the Holy Grail. It was so goddamn close – and so were all the answers.

The door slid open at the bottom and I stepped out on the manufacturing floor. They'd left out all the pretension here. There were no tile murals, no stainless steel borders and paint. Just bare concrete walls, plain white tiles. Two huge steel vats sat in the middle of the room, a giant metal mill churning some white liquid round. Big yellow biohazard signs slapped on the side. Angry signs reading GAS MASKS MUST BE WORN AT ALL TIMES! A huge network of pipes leading off into smaller side rooms. Lots of computers and technology, monitoring the vats.

I stepped down and stared at the vats. So it was the breath of these things that had killed a thousand. This was where it all began. Had I ever expected to find something like this here, even in the depths of my own fears?

I walked past, to the metal walkway that ran around the other side of the room. A small, dull door was set in the concrete wall, labelled with some meaningless letters and numbers. I scaled the metal staircase and pushed it open, exiting in a small black corridor with little doors set on the side.

Check every door. It's here somewhere.

I gently pushed open the first door and entered a white monitoring station, like something from a sixties B-movie. A large black window, one I'd never noticed from the manufacturing floor, looked out at those noxious vats. I walked towards them.

As I watched Mack Luther emerged from a side door, flanked by two goons. He was talking into a cell-phone.

I scanned the desk, found a monitoring button. Slammed the noise sensors up. There was a lot of static, but I could make out the conversation clearly. Luther wasn't capable of talking quietly.

"Yeah, it's done, boss," he said. "The trucks are gone. You can tell the chief it's all been taken care of… Yeah, I'm on it now. Just securing the vaccine prototype, then I'm lighting the blue touch paper." He cackled loudly, like a demon. There was a gap, then he sobered up. "Okay… Yes, boss, it's under control. Just a minor setback. I've got twelve men on him upstairs… Not yet, but it's only a matter of time, right? He's just one man… Nah. There's no chance of failure. If you think there is, you don't know my men."

The static got so loud that his words were lost briefly. I slammed a fist down on the monitors and Luther's grating voice cut back through it.

"Have you spoken to our employer?... Good. Then by morning AvaMed will be the largest pharmaceutical corporation in the country. And when the virus is loose, that little vial will make us all a fortune… I'll bring it round soon, boss… Okay… Good night."

He hung up, slipped his phone in his jacket pocket and mumbled something. He and his men began to walk towards me.

So that settled it. The vaccine was here.

I stood up, the MP5 close at hand. I slammed a clip home. There could be no backing down now. Mona's life lay in my hands.

I slipped through the door and headed down the corridor. There was a heavy steel door at the end, but it didn't appear to be locked.

If my guess was right, if all the pieces had slammed home as neatly as they seemed to, that made no sense. AvaMed were preparing to unleash the virus on the whole of America and beyond, killing thousands. They'd wait until the crisis worsened, then they'd throw down their ace – the Miasma vaccine. Their victims would be so desperate that they'd happily throw any amount of money at the corporation, and they'd reap in a fortune. As well as fulfilling the needs of whatever shadowy Mr Big had commissioned this crazy scheme.

Which meant that AvaMed's fortune was behind this unlocked door.

I pressed the button on the side and the door slid open, revealing a small black room with a steel case lying nonchalantly on a table. A single white light glowed on its perfect stainless steel surface.

I stepped into the light and grabbed the briefcase. Sealed by a small numeric code. Never mind. Get it off later. This place would be a pile of steaming rubble in less than an hour. Best to just get the hell out now.

I spun around and realised what I'd done. My big mistake. Just when I thought I had Lady Luck on my side for once.

"Put that down, Payne," Mack Luther said solemnly. He was flanked by a whole squadron of heavily armed goons. No escape. I rested a hand on the MP5.

Luther wasn't about to give me a chance to escape. Before I'd raised my hand he'd slammed the butt of a revolver straight into my jaw. My head exploded, stars flying in the hazy void. I slumped to my knees and the bastard delivered a kick square in the gut.

Hands reached down, pulling the briefcase away from me. Damn it, Max. So close. So damn close. I tightened my grip but the goons shrugged me off. All a failure.

"You want me to put a bullet in him?" I heard a voice say, a thousand miles off.

"Why waste it?" Luther replied. "Trigger the detonators. That'll take care of him." His voice, fading, moving away. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a meeting with Mr Grant."

The door slamming shut, locking. Sealing me in. It's over.

No.

I pushed up on my knees, my head still swimming, the air getting thick around me. I had a name. I knew where the AvaMed building was. That was enough to work with. I wasn't about to lie here and give up on Mona. I owed her more than that. No way was I giving up now.

I choked back a handful of painkillers, wincing at the medicinal taste stinging the back of my raw throat, and stumbled to the steel door. Banged against it. Locked. Shut pretty damn tight. From somewhere an alarm went off and someone cried out. Not much time.

I kicked the door hard. It didn't budge. Had to be at least a foot of steel. Come on, Max. Think. Think, damn you. There's got to be a way out.

I looked over the door, looking for tracks, locks, anything that would get that door down. It was a solid block, sealed in tight. Not a chance. There was a distant rumble, somewhere below me.

It can't end like this. It can't.

I turned my attentions to the room. It was pretty bare – dark concrete walls, an old table. One white light, throwing shadows everywhere. Then I saw it. A small grill, set into the floor. It wasn't much, but that air had to be coming from somewhere. And I'd seen the vents around the whole building.

I dug my fingers into the mesh grill, squeezing so tight blood trickled down my knuckles, and yanked back. It gave a little on the first tug with a reluctant rusty wail, then crumpled completely under the final heave. I tossed the grill aside and peered into the steel vent.

A straight steel passage up, pitted with little bars of glowing light. It was large enough to fit in, but gave me enough room to squeeze up against the sides and shimmy my way up. I climbed in, hoping to god I had enough time, and started to climb.

I'd made it up to the first junction when the lower part of the grill, the room I'd just been sat in, was blown out, a fireball rolling at least ten feet up the grill and searing my face. I yanked in breath and climbed faster.

I slammed through a grill on the second floor just as the fireball rolled out after me, trailing flames like something from a nightmare. The ground was rumbling now beneath me. Shards of tile dust fell in a steady stream around me.

I broke into a run. Behind me a wall exploded, showering my back in fire and plaster. Someone down the corridor screamed and the power short-circuited, leaving my passage lit by the flames behind me, all flickering red and orange.

As I hit the stairs the lower floor collapsed into fire, the C4 ripping through the tiles like a fist, hurling chairs and doors at me as I fled. My throat was pounding. The air was getting thick with smoke. I hit the first basement floor and ran full pelt for the exit.

I ran outside into the hot summer air just as the warehouse exploded, fire ripping through the tiled roof and a huge roar filling the air. I was thrown to the floor, rolling to a stop on the gravel. Behind me the warehouse collapsed into fire, ash rising on the summer breeze like dirty snow.

I stood, brushing the soot and sweat off me, watching as fire rolled across the base and swallowed up all the evidence. Soon the fire brigade would be here, and they'd put it out, and someone would buy the land and build a condo over it, and the base that birthed miasma on to the world would be lost forever.

I no longer cared. I'd seen enough. I had a name. And a target.

To be continued…


	8. Chapter Seven

**PART TWO: TO HELL AND BACK**

**_Chapter Seven: The Heart of New York_**

AvaMed's HQ was one of the newer buildings in the Manhattan business district. Not the most impressive, or the largest, but certainly adequate.

I left the stolen car in an alleyway and walked the empty streets, letting the warm summer breeze clear my head. This one would be tough. Simon West was protected by an army of security guards and a mass of high-tech security devices. I'd been here before, sure. I didn't like the way time was overlapping itself. Didn't like the way this stroll reminded me of a long ago winter's night, when I'd gone after another nemesis in another lair. Out here in the soulless, steel corporate world, the heart of New York. And lying at the centre of it like a cancer, AvaMed, pumping their noxious germs into the city's system for nothing but financial gain.

I stepped into the brightly lit plaza and stared up at the building. It sat at the end of a small plaza with a few benches surrounding a fountain. I imagined this place would be full of lunching employees in the daytime, employees who were lying safe in bed now, unaware of the evil brewing in the heart of their corporation. Beyond it, AvaMed HQ was a pillar of white light. The building consisted of two white concrete walls, flanking a huge, twenty-storey wall of glass. West's penthouse office loomed like a snarl over this glass. The lights were on. Grant was in.

I wandered through the empty marble plaza, to the revolving doors. Beyond them lay the marble lobby, the huge marble core of the building. In its centre, watching over everything, was a towering three-storey statue of a snake entwined around a syringe. Two security guard's booths on the other side of the door. No gun scanners. I breathed a sigh of relief. The last thing I needed was Grant flying off in his helicopter before I reached his office. There could be no turning back now. I was running out of time.

I pushed open the doors and stepped into the lobby. Alone now, with nothing but my footsteps. The air in the lobby was cold, but the lights were warm. Above me the building stretched up twenty storeys to Grant's penthouse office. I pulled out my Beretta.

A security guard stepped out of a side door, dressed neatly in an expensive black suit with headphones clamped around his mouth. He was spouting codes and military junk into the phone below his mouth.

"Lobby area clear, over," he cried without sparing me a glance.

I wasn't about to let him hear the response. I stepped forward into the bright lights of the lobby. He glanced up, met my eyes, and they widened in horror. One hand plunged into his jacket. I shot him twice in the chest. Blood flew out of his back and he stumbled backwards, slumping dead against the snake. He gave me one last look of horror before the lights went out in his blue eyes.

I raised my Beretta and strode across the marble floor, the echo of my footsteps bouncing off the twenty storeys of space above me. The late goon's headset gave out bursts of muffled static. I ignored it and walked towards the staircase on the other side of the room. Two of them, both pointing up to the first floor elevator.

Keeping my gun close to hand, I began to climb the stairs. The area was horribly silent, like a crypt. I tread carefully as I stepped out on to the faux-wood laminate flooring of the first floor, nothing but a dull transition level with two elevators.

As I watched one rumbled and clanged like a monster, then began to slide open with a soft ring. I pushed up against the wall and watched as three security guards exited.

"We lost Donald in the lobby," one, a butch man with short blonde hair and sunglasses, announced loudly. "Spread and find him."

"Affirmative," a man with dark curly hair, also short, replied. All three wore expensive black suits. All were armed with Desert Eagles. I didn't doubt for a second that there were more around the building. No time to waste.

I leapt out and pulled the trigger.

A bullet shattered the blonde man's shin and he screamed, slumping to his knees. The other two reached for their guns. I fired another shot and my heart collapsed. Nothing but an empty clack. Damn. No luck at all.

One goon got a lucky shot in, straight to the chest. Fire roared up through my gut and exploded in my heart. I hitched in a sharp breath and slumped to my knees. Another fired another shot, sending my arm flying backwards and thudding against a wall, knocking the bone out of its socket and sending pain like a thunder strike straight up into my chest.

I fell backwards against the wall, in excruciating agony. Blood ran in warm streamers between my fingers. There were footsteps advancing, loud and harsh. One of the goons slammed some bullets home in his gun.

Come on Max, I thought, reaching into my jacket. Another clip and you can blast your way out of here. Come on.

My fingers probed my inner pockets. I grabbed a handful of painkillers and slipped them into my palm. A clip. Just one damn clip.

Getting closer.

Panic tore through my body like a flaming shell. Empty. No guns. No escape.

Nothing else for it.

I choked back the painkillers just as the goon turned the corner, Desert Eagle at hand. Then, biting back the roaring agony, trailing blood, I leapt to my feet and grabbed the goon's wrist, just as he fired a shot. Behind me part of the neat plaster wall was blown to flaming dust. My ears rang.

I kneed the goon in the gut, winding him and sending him to his knees. Squeezing his other wrist, I yanked it down hard, pointed his gun at the other advancing guard, and squeezed the trigger. Three shots and he slumped face-first to the ground. Finally I head-butted my goon and he collapsed unconscious.

"Oh god," the goon with the shattered shin mumbled from behind me. "Oh god, no, please…"

I forced the Desert Eagle out of the unconscious goon's hand and advanced on the final security guard. He sat in a pool of blood, horribly black beneath the bright white lights, and stared up at me hopelessly.

"Please don't…" he choked. "Please. I'm just a security guard. Please no."

I gently placed the gun against his forehead. He burst into tears.

"Say goodnight," I whispered, and pulled the trigger.

The bullet hit the steel elevator door. The guard fell face first in his blood, crying and gibbering. He'd live. But he'd learned a lesson he wasn't about to forget.

I hit the elevator button, stepped inside, and headed up to Grant's office.

To be continued…


	9. Chapter Eight

**PART TWO: TO HELL AND BACK**

**_Chapter Eight: A Crazy Nightmare World_**

The elevator, a neatly furnished white cube with an immaculate mirror, rumbled upwards through the shaft to Simon Grant's opulent penthouse.

The painkillers were starting to take effect. Already the agony in my chest had faded to a distant hum, and my thoughts were sinking in soft clouds. I forced them away. I had to stay sharp. I was getting close, and I didn't know what would be waiting for me behind the next door.

The bleeding in my chest had tapered off. A flesh wound. You got lucky, Max. I made a clumsy tourniquet with a torn strip off my shirt for the arm. It had gone numb. Useless. I frowned. Already handicapped, and the worse was yet to come.

The elevator door slid open on another transitional area, a little faux-wood foyer with two plain white benches flanking a plant pot. Beyond the thin steel railings I could see the huge lobby window, and New York stretching away beyond that. The city at night, brooding with secret sin and death on the summer air. I reached for my Desert Eagle.

I took a right and passed through a steel door.

So this was it. The first gauntlet.

The corridor was expensively decked in priceless portraits and faux-pine walling. Laser trip wires rose and fell, brief red flashes in the sterile corridor. Doubtless packed into the walls behind them was enough C4 to blow me back to Jersey. From one end of the corridor a camera watched my every move, an electronic eye following me as I walked into my doom.

Footsteps. From behind. Driving me into those deadly scything beams and an explosive end.

I turned on them, Desert Eagle to hand. Three guards, strolling nonchalantly through the lobby. I opened fire, driving them back.

These guy were professionals. One rolled behind a bench. A bullet grazed the arm of another and he shrugged it off, returning fire. Bullets whizzed past my head, thudding home in the wood panelling behind my head. I ducked and fired a single shot into his gut. He slumped to his knees as his friend reached into his pocket.

And withdrew it clutching a little surprise. A black grenade.

I rolled into the lobby just as the grenade hurtled past my head, bouncing against the wall behind me and into the laser corridor. I hit the floor shooting. The goons returned fire.

Seconds later hunks of flaming steel were hurtling past my head and it felt like a giant hand was throwing me across the room. A jagged shard of steel tore off the head of the goon with the bullet in his gut, spraying me with his blood.

I rolled to the stop on the floor with the flames dancing around me. The other two were getting ready to act. No time to waste.

I shot the nearest goon in both knees and he collapsed, screaming. I rolled to the side and put a bullet in the final guard's skull, and he fell backwards like something out of a comedy sketch, blood shooting right up to the steel roof.

As I pushed myself up to my feet, my head swimming, feeling nauseous and weak, I could hear the distant hiss of the sprinklers extinguishing the flames that had blown the corridor out. After the explosion the sound was such a contrast that I let out a small laugh, and then let it die. You start laughing in here, Max, and you won't stop until they're carting you off to the Psych Ward.

I tread cautiously through the wreckage of the corridor, everything smouldering beneath the gentle sprinklers, and made my way to the staircase down the other end. Great ugly holes had been blown through the steel wall, leaving wires trailing out like guts. A light flashed on and off dimly before blinking out completely. And, uncaring as ever, the electronic eye just sat and watched.

Grant had known I was coming. He wouldn't have gone to these extremes otherwise. He knew I was alive, and he was plenty scared. Exactly where I wanted him. I'd scare the answers out of him, and then I'd kill him. Not because it was the right thing to do, not out of any sense of revenge, but because I wanted to send a message to whoever had charged him with this errand.

You're next.

I stepped off the staircase into an opulent reception, all white walls, subtle lighting and paintings on the wall. A few expensive sculptures dotted around. There were two doors here, on either side of the lobby, with marble desks sat in front of each. A lone receptionist sat behind one. Just as I had expected, the name on the brass plate on the double wooden doors behind her read MACK LUTHER – HEAD OF OPERATIONS.

There was no time for niceties. No time for funny stuff. I pulled my gun on the receptionist.

She was a pretty girl, all eyes and golden hair, and the fear that took over her face made my think of another face, lying dead on her own bed in a New Jersey house nearly a decade ago.

"Please," I choked. "I need to get into Luther's office."

"Don't hurt me," she sobbed.

I choked up. Had I lost my way? What was I doing? One minute you've got two kids and a wife, a mortgage, a house in the suburbs, the paper from the vendor on your way to catching the morning Metro, your latte done just as you like it, and the next you're pointing a gun at a receptionist because you've got no other choice. It gets to you sometimes. You realise that your life is nothing but a cheap backdrop and beyond it is some crazy nightmare world where Fortune 500 companies kill thousands to knock up their share prices and policemen are murdered in their own precincts. That when the backdrops fall away there's nothing but darkness, hopelessness, insanity, and big shark smiles. And the terrified eyes of a woman who wants to be home with her family, not sitting in the office at midnight on the brink of death because her bosses screwed up somewhere along the way.

The gun fell to my side.

"Listen," I said, my voice hoarse. "Hundreds of people are going to die tonight, and it's your boss's fault. You're probably not going to believe me, you probably think I'm a kook or something, but I'm serious. I need to get into that office, because the only person in the whole world who means a damn to me right now will die if I don't. And so will your husband, and those two pretty kids in that picture on your desk. And so will you. So please… open the door."

She turned pale, nodded briefly, put the key code in and let me pass.

I stumbled into Luther's vast office, its window eyes seeing the world beyond half-sealed horizontal blinds, the only light the unnatural blue of the computer screen and the dim yellow of a table lamp.

It no longer mattered to me. None of it.

I threw a load of papers on the floor, papers that probably held enough damning evidence to shut AvaMed down for good and send half its employees to the lethal injection, and opened shelves, filing cabinets, anything.

Nothing. The vaccine wasn't here.

I sighed and collapsed into the seat. Looked at the computer. All the answers here, everything I'd ever wanted to know. The case, all of it. Maybe a clue to the big answer.

My hand moved of its own accord, opening files, folders, idly scanning through Luther's computer. He'd been too arrogant to seal anything with passwords. Maybe he'd hoped that any normal person would be dead by now.

I wasn't normal. I'd left normality behind a long time ago.

One file caught my eye. Labelled 'Distribution,' it contained a set of documents, all, I soon realised, compiled lists of a legitimate front called Glaxo-Testing. Lists of patients who had been paid a small amount of money to test medicinal products, cosmetics and so on. I clicked on a GlaxoTest office in the Bronx, and read the listing. Columns labelled FIRST TEST, of a product with some complicated Latin name. I went down the list of patients and results, and then saw the name that sealed it all, the piece of the jigsaw where all the other pieces come together.

A single name: MARIA ESCOBAR. And the word SUCCESS.

I followed the name along, all successes. Scrolled up on the last column. And saw it, the awful truth. MIASMA A-STRAIN. And the word SUCCESS.

Reality itself, falling aside. Had you even noticed those clinics? They had just been rooms on the third and second floors of grimy brick buildings, rooms with unassuming window logos, rooms where people went to make a little extra cash to pay the bills. Take the shot, make a few dollars. All simple. And then, one day, slip in a little extra. Terminate their lives.

They'd spread Miasma through these centres. Pumped the poor and desolate of New York city with their lethal cocktail, sat back and watched it spread.

I'd seen too much, I never wanted to see anything like it ever again.

I left the room.

To be continued…


	10. Chapter Nine

**PART TWO: TO HELL AND BACK**

**_Chapter Nine: Falling on Blind Eyes_**

They'd had their orders just ten minutes ago. Luther's pretty young receptionist, pulling in some overtime to keep her boss' coffee warmed up whilst he chattered with the boss, had been threatened by some nut job with a Desert Eagle. She was a little shaken up, and right now she was down in the staffroom hurling up, but she hadn't had to see the mess I'd left in the lobby or scattered all over the building.

No, that had been bad.

Now they had me cornered in Luther's office. I'd torn my way through the building like a demon, but I was trapped like a rat now, and I'd probably die like one.

There were six men outside Luther's office, all well-armed and ready. Professionals. All toting automatics. Stepping out there would be like walking into a wall of lead. I slammed a clip into my Desert Eagle, got sharp and leapt out into the foyer.

Bullets rained down so hard on me that the door behind was blown inwards, splinters of wood raining down around me as I hit the receptionist's desk. They whistled past my face like hail.

I pushed my back up against the desk, leaned around the side, and let off two quick shots. One security guard slumped to the floor as his chest caved in, a look of foul revulsion spreading off his face. Another winced as a bullet grazed past his leg.

As I watched a volley of bullets tore past the space I'd occupied just seconds ago, leaving gaping black holes in the steel walls. I took a deep breath, stood up and pumped three bullets into the nearest guard before rolling to the side. He jittered violently and fell backwards. Falling down, I let loose another shot. It blew out another's eyeball and he stumbled around screaming for a few seconds before falling dead.

Still three more to go, I thought grimly. They were spreading apart now, surrounding me like hunters cornering prey. Only one thing for it. A decoy.

I reached into my pocket and took out my Beretta. Checked the socket. Empty. As the footsteps drew closer, I threw it hard to my right, where it hit the floor with a loud thud like gunfire. The guards opened fire on the empty space, making the mistake that would end their lives.

I leapt out from the left, shooting the nearest guard in the back. He collapsed forward on to his friend, who spun around just too late to avoid another bullet to the face. The final goon managed to get a few shots out, causing me to roll aside and shoot him in the groin. He screamed, collapsed and rolled on the floor.

I stood over him like a demon, my gun pointed down over his quivering body.

"Luther," I asked. "Where is he?"

"Upstairs," the goon choked. "In the boss' office. The lobby, I think. Please, god, kill me. KILL me!"

I obliged him, ending his agony with a shot to the head.

Above me a camera watched the carnage, as cold as ever, but I knew full well that on the other end of it Simon Grant was watching in horror as I stepped over the smoking remnants of his loyal guard. He knew that once I'd finished with Luther, it would be his turn next. And he'd feel the pain. Lots of it.

I walked towards the staircase that led up to Grant's office, two huge storeys, the brains of AvaMed. Choked back a few painkillers on the stairs. The pain in my chest was flaring up again, harsh as brimstone. I needed it gone. I was about to face Mack Luther.

His voice was audible even as I stepped out on to the luxurious laminate flooring of Grant's secretary's office, a huge, warmly-lit room with priceless paintings and sculptures dotted around. Large bay windows, sealed behind horizontal blinds, looked out on the city. In the centre of the room, sat on one of the benches that surrounded a smaller version of the lobby statue – the snake and the syringe – was Mack Luther.

"Sorry, honey, I've got a busy night ahead of me…" he said into his cell-phone. "We're doing a deal here that'll make us the biggest pharmaceutical corporation on the East Coast… Oh yeah, baby-doll, I've got the President as my bitch now. You want some rag-head country invaded, I can do it… That's right, baby. I'm your big man."

He burst out laughing, like something from a Vincent Price movie. I stepped into position.

"Okay, honey, I'll see you later… no, she doesn't know a thing. This is our little secret, sweetheart. Keep up for me."

I raised my gun. "Your wife?" I asked, nonchalantly.

He flinched so hard that he almost fell off his seat. He'd suddenly gone very pale.

"You!" he cried weakly. "You're dead! What are you… you're dead!"

"Just keep telling yourself that," I replied. "Afraid the boys downstairs might disagree with you, if they were still capable of speech."

"Oh god," he moaned. "Please, no."

"Where's the vaccine, Luther?"

"Grant's office. Above us. Listen, I was only doing what I was told. Just following orders. It was Grant. It was his idea. Listen… please."

I frowned and flipped off the safety. "You should have spared the big willy talk on the phone back there. You should have been saying your goodbyes."

"Please…" he begged, almost in tears. They fell on blind eyes. "I have a wife and kids. You wouldn't kill me in cold blood, would you?"

"And who was that on the phone? Your loving wife? You've gone too far this time, Luther. I bet you didn't think twice about all those other guys with wives and kids whose lives you happily signed away. I guess they didn't matter as much to a man as important as yourself, huh?"

Luther stared at the floor. Then he looked up at me, his eyes glistening. "Make it quick, then," he balked.

I did. A single shot to the heart.

He winced, fighting for breath, clutching at his chest, and collapsed on to the floor, He shuddered once and then lay still, blood pooling around him.

I stepped away from the body, walking towards the short staircase at the end of the room.

Just one more thing left to take care of: Simon Grant.

To be continued…


	11. Epilogue

**PART TWO: TO HELL AND BACK**

**Epilogue**

This is the seat of power of AvaMed. In this room the miasma crisis was pitched, talked over and finally put into action. This is where it all began.

It's a huge white room, with original, priceless paintings hanging on the wall, all lit by soft ambient lighting. There's a large oak walnut conference table in the middle of the room, flanked by leather seats. And at the far end, at the top of a short staircase, is Simon Grant.

His desk is a large white marble semi-circle. There's a laptop built into it before him, an old glass and gold bar table lamp, and a pen holder. Nothing else. No pictures, no family, no nothing. Behind him there's a huge long window, black eyes beyond which the city spreads out and up into the summer air, stars shining in the velvet darkness. And at the centre of this sits Grant himself.

I approach him, walking past the conference table, my legs like jelly. I'm getting that feeling you get when you look at the pyramids or Venice or Lady Liberty for the first time – you've seen it in the photos, you know what it looks like, and in real life you're realising that it's every bit as impressive. In these settings, in his lair, Simon Grant couldn't look more imposing. I can't see them, but I know there are buttons in his desk which he can press and summon a hundred fully-armed men into this room and have me vaporised and cleaned up before his 9 am conference. I know he's been following my every move through that LCD screen. His face tells me so. But there's no fear. Nothing but a goddamn fiery determination to end it all.

I walk up the steps.

"Mr Payne," Grant says, his voice as smooth as good wine. He's got a face built for Forbes or any of those other corporate bibles – young, but wise beyond its years, clean shaven, deep tan, ruggedly attractive but undeniably wealthy. Slicked black hair. He's wearing a white pinstripe shirt and black braces. The sleeves are rolled up.

"Don't act so surprised," I reply. "You know what I want."

"The vaccine, right?" he says, nonchalantly. "It's hopeless. If Sax got the C-Strain she's dead already.

Anger flashes up through my body and I reach for my gun. "How do you know about Sax?"

Grant chuckles. He's not acting scared, but he's been taught not to show any fear. I learned when to recognise a terrified man a long time ago.

"Oh, and that's the automatic response, isn't it, Payne?" he sneers. "Reach for the gun. Why solve problems any other way? It matters everything to you that your wife and children are dead, but all those other orphans and widows you're leaving behind – that's fine, isn't it?"

"I'm no hero," I reply, but he's hit me hard, and it hurts because he's right. I can justify it to myself as much as I want, but in the end it all boils down to me, the gun and the bad guy, and if I think there's anything else to it, I'm a fool.

"No," he says. "You don't know any other way. You're as bad as we are. It's your choice of victims that lets Joe Average think you're a Hero Cop, isn't it?"

I throw it aside. Playing mind tricks with me. Ignore it. Focus on what matters.

I pull my gun on him.

He chuckles softly. "Go on, Payne," he says. "Shoot me."

Something snaps, and I leap forward, and the next thing I know the window has imploded, and I'm standing out on the brink with the harsh summer wind pulling at my hair, the city rising up around me like stars, the scream of sirens a dying crescendo in my ears. I've got Grant in my hand, and he's squirming. And the look of comfort in his eyes has turned to raw fear.

"See, Grant?" I yell, over the wind. "A little violence can be useful. Now where's the vaccine?"

"No!" Grant cries.

I let go with one hand. For a moment half of his body tilts, and he gets a nice long look at that distant plaza, far, far below, the snake a tiny Monopoly piece, and the shards of glass falling like shooting stars to those hard, cold tiles. My stomach lurches and I almost let him go.

"In my desk!" he screams, and I grab hold of his shirt cuffs again. His brow is moist with cold sweat.

"How did you know about Sax?" I say. "Who set this whole thing up?"

"God, not that!" he screams hysterically. I let him go again, shaking him gently with my spare hand. One foot tilts, begins to slide, and he screams.

I grab him again.

"WHO!" I yell in his face.

"Senator West!" he screams back.

For a moment I blank out, the noise of the city around me fading to a dull hum.

"You better not be lying, because if you're not, those are some high-class accusations," I whisper.

Grant shakes his head, and the final piece of the puzzle slides into place, and suddenly everything fits. And it's like a conspiracy theorist's worse nightmare. Senator Nathan West is the most powerful man in New York. A staunch Republican, all the polls have him up to be the next President. Won the last election here in New York by a landslide, on a strictly religious and criminal platform. I'd read the paper's side of the story – it was pretty well known. Came from a poor East Side family, raised in an orphanage by some old nuns who raised him as a strict Catholic. He left the nunnery to go to college, and graduated, but found out that the world of work wasn't for him. He wanted to make a difference. So he went into politics here in the city, and was one of the fastest high-flyers the state had seen, making congressman in his late thirties. He got elected to Senator just a few years back.

But I knew there was more to Senator West. I knew he'd been a minor member of the Inner Circle, back when it was a major organisation. He'd kept his head low when the Circle collapsed, but after it fell apart, he swept into power and picked up the remains. Now he ran the city completely.

If anyone could afford to commission the manufacture of a virus as potent as Miasma, it was Senator West. And did that mean he'd hired Hades to take care of me and the rest of the precinct? It all fit, but none of it made sense. It was the stuff of nightmares.

I drag the quivering shape of Simon Grant back into his office, and he collapses weakly into his chair. I step away, down the steps, my head swimming. Senator West – behind everything? God, Hades had been right.

"How did he do it?" I ask calmly.

"Got in touch with me about a year ago," Grant says weakly. He sounds ill. "Promised me that if we put his virus prototype into mass production, he'd make all the charges of malpractice in Africa go away. I had no choice."

"And withdrawing the virus cure until you could get enough money for it? Was that his idea too?"

"That was ours." He sighs, and wipes his brow. He sounds scared, really scared, for the first time. "I don't know what's going on anymore. I think… I think he's gone mad. Stark raving mad."

Suddenly his fear makes perfect sense.

I turn to say something to Grant, to retrieve the virus, to leave here, but there was a loud thud from behind me like a gun shot. Next thing I know three bullets are whistling past my face. They all hit Grant in the chest. He screams, struggles for a moment and then dies, plumes of smoke rising off his still chest.

I don't need to turn around to know who fired the shots. And sure enough, there he stands, with his big wide shark smile, clutching a smoking gun. FBI Agent Troy Novak. Flanked on both sides by his goons, all in expensive suits. I recognise his lackey from our first meeting.

"I think he's said enough," Novak says with a little chuckle.

"Agent Novak," I say. "So this is your glorious new world order. You make it sound like something glorious, but I'm thinking you're more like Senator West's lapdog."

"I'm cleaning up this mess, Payne," he says, still grinning. "And you're very much a part of it. You and AvaMed. They made a big mistake trying to screw us over. They'll be out of business when the Dow Jones opens tomorrow morning." He laughed at himself for a moment, and then added, "If there is a Dow Jones."

"Nice to know you're repaying them kindly," I reply. "And what's my reward?"

He fired a single shot. It socks home in my neck, a brief flash of pain.

I reach for my Desert Eagle, but it's like lifting a ten-tonne weight. My legs collapse under me and I fall to my knees. The whole world swims in grey, fading to black. Tranquiliser dart, I think, tasting the stinging medicinal at the back of my throat.

The last thing I remember seeing is Troy Novak's legs as he steps forward, and feeling his goon's arms around me as they lift me up.

**Author's Note: Thanks to all those that have been reading up those point, and to all those who have submitted reviews. Part Three, the final part, will be up soon. I'm hoping to try something different with the prelude: see what you think! Thanks again - Pat Taylor.**


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